


All My Little Words

by nukablastr



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cut from the Cloth universe, Developing Relationship, Episode: s17e09 Depravity Standard, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Rafael Barba, Pining, Pre-Relationship, baked goods as a love language, canon death threats mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukablastr/pseuds/nukablastr
Summary: Whatever Carisi's reasons were, in the time since he joined the squad Rafael had grown accustomed to seeing him crouched over a notepad in the back of the gallery during trials, even during the cases that fell outside the realm of Carisi’s purview. Once or twice, Rafael had even entertained an enthusiastic line of questioning from Carisi after closing arguments, a few unannounced visits to Rafael’s office that seemed born half as much out of academic curiosity as a desire to compliment the choices that he had made. Despite any modest efforts to redirect those conversations, vanity often won out, because who didn’t appreciate a good highlight reel?--Set during the Hodda trial in Depravity Standard (17x09), Rafael reckons with his deepening feelings for his courtroom shadow.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28





	All My Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! Sightless in a Savage Land (22x04) confirmed that perfect-attendance-Carisi went to **all** of Barba's closing arguments, that it was a known thing between them, and my Barisi heart is full once more (in the year 2021!! imagine!!) 
> 
> This was written as kind of a spiritual precursor to the events in [No Closer to Peace](https://archiveofourown.org/series/759486), but I didn't want to add it to the series as it's not in Sonny's POV. This story can stand alone, but if ya wanna see them actually get together, read that series next :) 
> 
> I am not a lawyer so I claim all inaccuracies as artistic license, and I own nothing but a pair of cats.
> 
> Dedicated to sound, blaine, larkin, kate, and jenny, who have kept me sane during a really rough year.

_"You said you were in love with me  
Both of us know that that's impossible  
And I could make you rue the day  
But I could never make you stay"  
_[The Magnetic Fields - All My Little Words](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C91aKk5ryzI)

***

Rafael nicked the name of the bakery, Palermo’s, from a box in the breakroom of the SVU precinct a few months ago. It was one of those harried morning visits to the squadroom at the behest of his superiors, made much more tolerable by the flaky, fruity pastry foisted upon him when he arrived. He had barely crossed the threshold when Detective Carisi had caught him, exiting the breakroom himself with his hands full of something not-quite-donut-shaped and a steaming mug of coffee.

_Hey counselor_ , Carisi had called out brightly, all graceless charm as he took a bite of his pastry and beckoned Rafael back towards the breakroom with an outstretched elbow. 

_C’mere_ , he had said, his mouth half full, _get yourself something!_ And even if Rafael had wanted to demur, Carisi was quick to assume the affirmative, ushering him in and opening the crisp blue box on the table, waving the lid as he wagged his brow. Really, who could refuse such an invitation?

In reality, Palermo’s bore little resemblance to the small Italian bakery Rafael had imagined from his brief skim of the Yelp listing the night before, and even less like the kind of authentic, unassuming place he envisioned Carisi would frequent—one where the walls were cluttered with oil paintings of Italy and curling photographs of family. Palermo’s was decked out in early Christmas decor, bustling with mid-morning traffic as a long line of customers snaked around the perimeter of the storefront. The air was rich with the scent of sugar and roasting coffee, heavy with aimless chatter layered over some pop-Christmas cover and the distant clatter of a busy kitchen. 

It was the large statue of a cannoli standing in the middle of the bakery that gave Rafael real pause. The statue was wrapped in a knitted “I ❤️ NY” scarf and flanked by two children whose wiry father was setting up a charming cellphone snapshot. Combined with the crowd and the copious signage on the walls denoting that this was _The Home of The Cannoli King_ , Rafael got the distinct impression that he had stumbled into a tourist trap. 

But there was no time to improvise a second choice now, not with his schedule so tightly wound around the Hodda trial. He had already taken the pains to plan this particular errand, exiting the subway a few stops early and navigating through throngs of pedestrians who should have had the decency to leave their phones in their pockets as they walked. Resigned to his fate—part sunk-cost fallacy, part inexplicable commitment to this specific purchase—Rafael shuffled into line and scanned the menu.

It had been a little over a month since Rafael had darkened the doorstep of the precinct now. The grand jury indictment in the Terrence Reynolds case, the way it all unfolded in endless media cycles, left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. In the wake of the indictment Rafael had chosen to keep his distance, hopeful that cooler heads would prevail, and that with time the choices that he made would be more readily understood. But now, with the impending Hodda trial bringing Lieutenant Benson’s interrogation methods into question, he knew the mending of those bridges was not likely to be imminent. Even if he hadn’t known Benson well enough to assume, she had made as much clear to him a few days prior in a brisk sidebar—and that was _before_ Hodda had secured Lisa Hassler as his new counsel. Now? Rafael had his work cut out for him.

Despite it all, the dark tendrils that curled around his ribs every time Reynolds-related paperwork crossed his desk, the endless OpEds about necessary police reform and, more recently, a couple of vaguely menacing text messages he had received from some self-righteous, fat-thumbed stranger, he still felt the imposed distance from the squad to be a lonely one. Rafael hadn’t been so lucky in his career to find such easy camaraderie amongst colleagues, let alone cops; and what’s more, it had been rare to find himself among officers whose virtues he had real faith in.

So when Detective Carisi had shown up to Hodda’s pre-trial motions, practically chasing Rafael down the hallway fueled by some earnest enthusiasm to _shadow the case_ and bearing unexpected blessings from Benson for his cause, Rafael had found himself agreeing to the venture against his better judgment. It meant more work during an already stressful prep period, a potential for distraction from a case he hadn’t anticipated taking to trial, but Rafael couldn’t deny that the promise of his company was appealing.

Why Carisi seemed so single-minded in his attempts at earning a place in Rafael’s good graces, outside of a potential penchant for masochism, was a thing Rafael found himself puzzling over. Sure, he knew that Carisi held a sort of eager reverence for the comings and goings in the courthouse—everyone who met the guy knew that about him. Rafael had once overheard Rollins using the term _lawyer fanboy_ behind his back, casting a knowing glance to Fin as she said it, and it was admittedly a fitting description despite whatever negative connotation she was after. 

Rafael knew too that Carisi held him in general high esteem as the precinct’s go-to ADA, and exponentially more so since his successful prosecution of Carisi’s brother-in-law’s parole officer, Donna Marshall. (There had been an ostentatious fruit basket to go along with that particular victory, delivered courtesy of Carisi’s sister.)

And sure, Rafael was well aware of the fact that his own reputation preceded him in professional circles: silver tongue, brass balls; _swagger,_ as he had heard it distilled in some passing 8th floor gossip. Or, more to the point, _a real smug dick._

But he had to assume that there were easier Fordham connections to be made for someone like Carisi, better role models to be found among their ranks. Lawyers who were less Icarian in their pursuits, who spent less time rattling at the bars of a cage of their own devising. 

Whatever Carisi's reasons were, in the time since he joined the squad Rafael had grown accustomed to seeing him crouched over a notepad in the back of the gallery during trials, even during the cases that fell outside the realm of Carisi’s purview. Once or twice, Rafael had even entertained an enthusiastic line of questioning from Carisi after closing arguments, a few unannounced visits to Rafael’s office that seemed born half as much out of academic curiosity as a desire to compliment the choices that he had made. Despite any modest efforts to redirect those conversations, vanity often won out, because who didn’t appreciate a good highlight reel?

Though neither really acknowledged the ritual of it, the familiarity had become something of a comfort to Rafael, and a small part of him was glad that his own self-imposed time away from SVU hadn’t dissuaded Carisi from that specific pursuit. 

And so, that is how Rafael found himself buying a selection of cannoli from Little Italy’s famed _Cannoli King_ to have something to offer his courtroom shadow on a mild Monday in November. It was a gesture whose importance felt strangely paramount, and whose root was buried somewhere deep, tangled in unnameable impulse and some bone-deep sense of gratitude.

***

Carmen was on the phone at her desk and taking notes as she listened when Rafael made it to his office. She gave him a curt wave. He set the box of cannoli on the edge of her desk and waited for her to finish; once she hung up, he opened the lid as an invitation.

“Well! What’s the occasion?” she asked, eyeing the selection carefully.

“Happy Monday,” he offered with a shrug, half as much question as answer. 

“Works for me.” She chose one with lavender filling, delicately placing it and its scalloped paper wrapper beside her keyboard.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Ready and waiting in your office.”

“Perfect.” 

She followed him into his inner chambers as she often did while he set about his usual routine—dropping his things at his desk, assessing the state of the perpetual clutter, and pouring himself a mug of coffee from the pot she had readied for him. “So you’ve got jury selection for the Hodda trial at 1, and the senior prosecutor meeting at 4:30,” Carmen said. She paused for a moment, then added, “Oh, and your ah...shadow. He called.”

Rafael turned back to face her, holding the pot of coffee. “Detective Carisi?”

“Mhm,” she said, reading from the small notepad she held. “He said you two were supposed to prep for jury selection this morning, but to let you know that Lieutenant Benson needed him and Detective Tutuola to talk to a witness first. Tying up a few loose ends for the trial, he said.”

“Oh.” Rafael’s shoulders fell slightly, and he turned back to fixing his coffee. It wasn’t that he had been looking forward to their prep work exactly, more the friendly distraction _from_ the prep work. Distraction was something that Carisi was always able to provide in ample quantity, whether through meandering anecdotes or compelling legal arguments dug from some wellspring of esoteric knowledge.

“He told me to apologize to you—a couple times, actually—and to let you know he’d be here as soon as he can. _Definitely_ before voir dire, he said. He was pretty adamant about that point.” 

Something about her tone, light with a trace of amusement as she recounted the phone call, raised Rafael’s hackles. “I don’t know why I even agreed to it,” he said quickly. “The shadowing business. I’m not a professor. I have too much on my plate as it is, taking this case to trial, and you’d think Liv of all people would have thought twice before saddling me with babysitting.” It came out harsher than intended, and he regretted it as soon as it left his lips. He tried to think of something pithy to add as he stirred his coffee, something to clear the dark echo that hung in the air, but came up uncharacteristically blank. He slid into his seat at his desk with his coffee and began shuffling through the mess of papers.

“True. You are a busy man,” Carmen agreed. She leaned against the doorframe, lowering her notepad to her hip. “It seems like you’re doing Detective Carisi a big favor though.”

Rafael snorted to himself as he mindlessly collected documents into a pile that he would eventually have to deconstruct. “Right.”

“That’s how he put it on the phone this morning,” she added, thoughtfully. “He sounded pretty grateful for the opportunity.”

“Yes, well.” Rafael felt a twinge of humility at the thought of Carisi expressing such a sincere sentiment. “I suppose I have moments of charity.”

“I know that you do, Mr. Barba,” she said, smiling. “Did you need anything else this morning?”

He shook his head. “Hold my calls for now, and keep the schedule light this week if you can. Oh, and, offer Carisi one of the, ah”—he waved towards the door, falling slightly short of the nonchalance he was aiming for. “Offer him a snack when he gets here,” he clarified, clearing his throat. 

“I will,” she said. The door clicked shut behind her, and it left Rafael alone in the deafening silence of his office. 

He found a few relevant Rodriguez files on his desk among the clutter and spread open the first manilla folder. On top of the paperwork sat a photograph of Hector Rodriguez’s backpack where it had been found buried with his body beneath a layer of cement years ago. Its checkered cloth was powdered in dust and its straps had gone ragged with age. He was struck by the sudden thought of Hector's mother parting her curtains and watching the street corner anxiously through the same sliver of glass, day after day, praying for a boy who would never come home.

His own mother was never the type for holding vigil at the window when he walked home from school. As with many things in those days, she seemed to operate under the assumption that with persevering belief and gritted teeth the world would eventually bend to her stubborn will. 

Besides, he had been blessed with Eddie and Alex, friends who learned early how to navigate the world with their fists, the relative safety found in numbers. If his mother trusted anyone to keep her son safe, it was Alejandro. Look how that turned out.

Rafael flipped the folder shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Focus_. He gathered the files he would need to prepare for the day ahead and moved them all to the large table in his office, spreading the folders wide and giving himself a fair distance from them, from the terrible story they told.

***

Carisi burst through the door to Rafael’s office half-past noon looking windswept and pink around the cheeks. He carried two cardboard coffee cups, barely balancing one of the cannoli Rafael had bought on the lid of one of them. 

“Hey there Barba,” Carisi said, offloading one of the cups he carried onto the table beside Rafael where he sat as though the delivery had been requested. “Sorry again about this morning—Lieu, she wanted me and Fin to talk with Lomotin, you know, the auxiliary cop? The one who found Hector’s lunchbox back then? Guy’s got a few screws loose if you know what I mean. He’s been calling Rollins with hot tips at all hours, so we figured we’d check up on him, see if he had anything useful to add now that we’re taking this to trial.”

Rafael blinked. It was a lot of information in such a short amount of time: the auxiliary cop, the animated apologies, the fading flush on Carisi’s face. Carisi rounded the table and flopped down in the chair facing Rafael, laying his worn briefcase on the chair beside him. “Total dead end, that guy. Wants to be a hero in the worst kind of way. Anyway, I brought some notes with me, and I know we’re cutting it close, but I thought maybe you could run me through your thought process a little first, y’know. What’s Hassler’s play gonna be, right? Who’s she looking out for? I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve got some ideas.” He placed his own coffee on the table and took a bite of his cannoli, then leaned over to rifle through his briefcase. Suddenly, he stopped rifling and looked to Rafael with concern. “Hey, everything alright, counselor?”

Rafael smiled faintly and rubbed at his jaw. He didn’t know where to begin, but he was oddly grateful for the way the tornado of energy had taken his mind off the moments before Carisi’s arrival, poring over the aging evidence that was mostly circumstantial at best.

“I see you availed yourself,” Rafael said finally, gesturing to the half-eaten cannoli in Carisi’s hand. 

“Ah, yeah, Palermo’s! Carmen offered, said you brought ‘em in for everyone. Good stuff. I didn’t know you were a fan—hey, you gotta tell Fin!” Rafael tilted his head. “Yeah, you do know he’s friends with the cannoli king, right?”

Enigma that Detective Tutola was, “friends with the cannoli king” numbered among the more innocuous facts Rafael had learned about the guy since he had transferred to the Manhattan DA’s office. With this revelation, it occurred to Rafael that the pastries at the precinct all those months ago might not have been Carisi’s doing, and he wasn’t even sure why that had even been an important detail to begin with. He felt a strange pang of embarrassment for having gone out of his way on such a ridiculous gesture. 

Carisi laughed. “Yeah, real claim to fame, am I right? Fin gets freebies for the precinct every once in a while. Nah, but these are great though, thanks! You know, it’s no Cannoli King, but personally I’m partial to Pangione’s, you ever been? Best sfogliatelle on Staten Island, and they do a solid cheesecake—”

“I’ve never been,” Rafael cut in sharply.

Carisi looked sufficiently sheepish. “Ah, right, here I am late and talking your ear off about cheesecake.” He opened his padfolio to reveal pages of scrawled notes tucked together and a few post-it pads neatly gridded on the reverse side. “Already breaking the cardinal rule: shadows don’t speak, am I right? I get it, and like I said counselor, I’m sorry for running behind today. Really, I’m ready to get up to speed as soon as you are.” He tapped his notes with the tip of his pen and flashed a smile. 

“Good,” Rafael said, softening slightly. He glanced at his watch. “But at this point we’ll have to walk and talk or we’ll be late. Hassler is sharp, you know that. We can’t cede an inch to her, punctuality included.” He closed the folder that sat in front of him. 

“Right, right, I get that. No problem.” Carisi popped the tail end of his cannoli into his mouth, a fluid motion, and put his notes back in his briefcase. “That Hassler, she really is something, huh? And her father, that Black Panther defense in Queens?” He gave a low whistle. “There are textbooks yet to be written about that guy.”

“She’d write them if she had the time,” Rafael said as they gathered their things and made their exit. 

Hassler _was_ something, and she knew it better than most. Rafael had certainly not missed her calculated choice to fly in Dr. George Huang as her expert forensic psychiatrist; he knew it was half as much about the man’s expertise as his network. With the deft exclusion of the kidnapping allegations, Hassler intended to make this trial personal, emotional, to get under Benson’s skin in front of a jury. Rafael knew that she was more than capable of it.

“It was good to see you, Carmen,” Carisi said with a wave as they passed by her desk. He stopped short to hold the door for Rafael as they left, and Rafael could practically feel the energy radiating off of Carisi as he launched into the hallway on another conversational tangent.

“We’re lucky the weather’s not that bad, huh? Kinda windy, but it seems like it’s usually a little colder by this point. I can’t believe they’re already playing Christmas music at the coffee shops, though. Doesn’t seem right. I mean, at least wait ‘til after Thanksgiving, am I right?”

“Thank you,” Rafael blurted out suddenly, and the sentiment surprised him almost as much as it seemed to surprise Carisi, who furrowed his brow. 

“For what?”

“For... braving the Christmas music. For the coffee, detective.” He lifted his cup. 

“Ah, yeah, sure! Any time, counselor,” Carisi replied affably, tipping his own coffee as if in toast. “Shadows provide the caffeine, that’s gotta be one of the rules, right?”

Rafael smiled, shook his head as Carisi got out ahead to press the elevator buttons. “Right. Alright then, Carisi. Jury selection. What are your thoughts?”

***

A large paper bag sat on the side of Carmen’s desk the next morning when Rafael arrived. It was stark white, adorned with a red ornamental crown over swooping green script that read _Pangione’s Pastry Shop._

“Your shadow called again,” Carmen said, tapping the handle of the bag as Rafael approached, curious. “He won’t be able to make it this morning,” she said, apologetic. “The precinct was short staffed and he wound up being needed on an overnight shift. But, he had this delivered for you and said he would be in touch as soon as he”—she glanced down to her notes—“caught at least three consecutive hours of sleep.”

Rafael could practically hear Carisi’s delivery of that line. He peered into the bag and saw it held a white bakery box with the same logo printed on top as on the bag. “A bit much, don’t you think?” he asked, raising a brow. 

She shrugged. “He said to tell you it’s from the best bakery on Staten Island.”

Rafael spied a small box beside her keyboard with the same logo, and despite his best efforts to remain neutral, he chuckled. “Yes, so he’s said.”

As he reached out to pluck the bag from Carmen’s desk, she put her hand over it for a moment to block him. “Mr. Barba, you’re going to have to call off the bakery wars if he’s going to be shadowing you for a while. I can’t be eating this much butter for breakfast every single morning.”

“Mm. Yes, well, I appreciate your fortitude in light of these challenges.” 

She grinned as she ceded the bag to him. “So, you have court at 9:15, and your coffee’s waiting in your office.”

“Thank you, Carmen.”

Once Rafael was safely perched at his desk with a steaming mug of coffee, he unpacked the cardboard box from its bag and placed it on his desk. Inside were six pastries, each a bit smaller than the size of his palm and comprised of thin layers like swirling petals dusted with powdered sugar. Someone had written _sfogliatelle (6)_ on the side of the box in permanent marker. He felt a flush of fondness as he thought of Carisi, somewhere in the midst of an overnight shift, arranging for the delivery to be made. 

He thought of Carisi the day before, coltish, pacing that tight circle around the perimeter of the small courthouse conference room they had taken over. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his eyes were like embers lit from within as he talked through his thoughts on the seated jury, skillfully weaving together classroom theory with a detective’s read on humanity. He was unpracticed, sure, and rough around the edges, but quick to admit both of those qualities and eager to grow from them. 

Carisi had genuine potential. Selfishly, Rafael felt a deep sense of pride for being among the few who seemed to be entrusted with it, to have it laid so bare and imperfect at his feet for approval. It was an image too sentimental for Rafael to dwell on.

For a moment, Rafael allowed himself to entertain a small, lingering sense of disappointment that Carisi would miss opening statements. He had looked forward to hearing his own mythologized in Carisi’s retelling, a story likely to have been half-told through animated gestures. He may have envisioned the day unfolding between them as he matched his bright tie to its corresponding pocket-square that morning; he may have felt a rare swell of anticipation in the process.

Rafael took a bite of the sfogliatella and his senses were flooded with the rich taste of butter and cream, the spark of citron hidden in its delicate layers. Though he had no worthy comparison, based on first bite alone he was willing to accept Carisi’s judgement that Pangione’s was the best on Staten Island. 

***

There were no clear victories in the courtroom that day despite any solid ground that Rafael had laid. He implored the jury to consider the weight of Lewis Hodda’s blatant confession. But with so little concrete evidence to link Hodda to the crime beyond that video tape, Hassler was free to weave her own narrative through the white space. Hers was the story of a cold case, a detective’s obsession, and a convenient solution—Rafael had to admit, it made for good courtroom theatre.

Emotion, the overabundance of it, was going to be at the core of Hassler’s defense strategy, and so it would be critical for Rafael to present a cool, rational front for the jury. It was for that reason that, after a watery afternoon phone call with Mrs. Rodriguez regarding the nature of her testimony the next morning, Rafael determined she was in need of further prep for her time on the stand. Without Benson as that ever-present beacon of kindness in the gallery, her own testimony scheduled for later in the trial, he worried that Mrs. Rodriguez would falter.

Who better to deliver a dose of empathy to Mrs. Rodriguez’s doorstep than Carisi? He was certainly a charmer, Rafael thought, all bedside manner with his kind eyes and a flash of dimples for good measure. Carisi provided a calming presence when needed, and Mrs. Rodriguez was in need of it.

Carisi had called to check in once he clocked a few hours of sleep, asking first about the sfogliatelle ( _I’d need more evidence to declare it the best in the borough_ Rafael had said, enjoying the exasperation that bled through on the other end) and then about what he missed in the courtroom that day. Rafael took pity on the weary rasp in his voice. He asked Carisi to stay on at the precinct and continue digging through their scant evidence for any possible advantage they might have. Carisi kept him apprised of the situation through periodic text messages, and though he hadn’t actually come across anything of note, Rafael had found it nice to get the periodic notifications. 

Rafael knew that he could have easily sent a text message to Carisi letting him know that he should plan on visiting Mrs. Rodriguez that evening, but he decided to deliver the news in person instead. And why not go visit her together? It occurred to him that since Carisi had made a point of sending over Staten Island’s best baked goods, it might be nice to repay the favor with a favorite Ethopian spot just outside of Mrs. Rodriguez’s neighborhood. It would be a working dinner after their visit; a professional kindness. Besides, it would give them an unhurried opportunity to review strategy going forward, to discuss the case and, who knows, maybe Rafael might gain some rare insight into the background of Carisi’s law aspirations. It had been something of a curiosity to Rafael, why an established detective like him might start looking to switch sides. 

As he entered the squadroom that evening, Rafael could see from a distance that Liv’s door was closed and her blinds were pulled. He was glad to be spared that particular avenue for awkwardness. She had been cordial when he had run into her the day before outside the courthouse, all friendly banter about Rafael enduring Carisi’s increased presence in his life, but then bumping into Dr. Huang and learning her former colleague was not in town on a social call had cooled her demeanor significantly. 

Rafael found Carisi hunched over his notepad in the far conference space, a familiar sight at this point. The washed out image of Lewis Hodda in his undershirt, hulking and jowly, was projected on the television screen nearby, paused in mid-sentence as Carisi scribbled something in his notes.

“Anything?” Rafael asked.

Carisi glanced up from what he was writing, then leaned back in his seat to address Rafael. He looked tired. “I watched this whole confession three times, and this guy is crazy, but he’s not, y’know”—he gave the familiar gesture—“ _crazy_.” 

“Thank you, Doctor Carisi,” Rafael replied, amused. “Thinking of taking up medicine after you pass the bar?”

“Not tonight.” He stood up from his seat, rolling his shoulders and neck before pushing up his sleeves. “Nah, I’m gonna take this care package up to Rollins. She’s still on bed rest and she’s going shacky-wacky.”

Rafael raised a brow. You can take the man out of Staten Island, and _yet_.

His attention was drawn to the bakery bag resting on the seat near Carisi, identical to the one that had been waiting for him on Carmen’s desk that morning. _Pangione’s_. For the second time in as many days, he felt the sharp ache of embarrassment, felt far too old to be staking any sort of personal significance in such small gestures. 

He struggled to pinpoint when exactly he had begun to nurture that particular seed of thought: that the morning’s delivery had been indicative of anything beyond Carisi’s general sense of do-goodery, or what’s more, that Carisi’s persistent presence in the courthouse had signalled anything more than a keen interest in career advancement. 

And of course Carisi was paying a benevolent house-call to _shacky-wacky_ Rollins that evening with a bakery care package. It was a kindness he was sharing with all of his colleagues, nothing more.

“You can drop it off on your way uptown,” Rafael said cooly, and Carisi furrowed his brow. “Hector’s mother takes the stand in the morning,” he clarified, “and she could use some hand-holding. You need to remind her that Benson’s not going to be in the courtroom for her—”

“Right, ‘cause she hasn’t testified yet, yeah I get that.”

“Good,” Rafael said. Then feeling slightly foolish for his clipped tone, his bruised ego, the three sfogliatelle he had eaten over the course of the day when he had intended to only have one, Rafael added: “Go. Be supportive. She’s a good woman.”

“Yeah. ‘Course. Where is Delores living these days?”

“Her old apartment. She ah… never moved. So that Hector would be able to find her if he ever... came back.” He looked to the image of Hodda paused on the screen like some strange third party eavesdropping on the conversation.

Carisi grimaced. “Makes sense.” He gathered his notes from the table and picked up the paper bag. “How ‘bout you, counselor?” But Rafael had lost himself in studying Hodda’s face, the dark bags under his eyes, the way he looked somehow smaller despite the size of the screen he was projected on. 

“Barba?”

“Hm?” He snapped back to attention.

“You busy prepping tonight, or…?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”

“Ah. Right, yeah of course. Well, hey, if you want to run anything by me tonight, give me a ring. I’ll probably be up late. But hey, I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early, 8:30 on the nose, no worries there.”

Rafael nodded, and watched him slink off towards his desk. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Carisi could have been attempting to broach the same invitation that Rafael had initially planned to offer; but then he stopped himself before stumbling any further down that precarious trail of thought. 

Later that evening, eating Ethopian take-out alone on his couch and letting some History channel docuseries hum in the background for company while he prepared for tomorrow’s witness examinations, Rafael received a few text messages from Carisi.

“i think she’ll b ok,” Carisi wrote. “we chatted for a while. she’s a good lady. we talked about what tomorrow will look like w/o benson, what hassler will prob focus on. she says she’s ready.”

Rafael weighed a few potential responses, but ultimately he decided not to reply. Anything he had to say was not vitally important at this hour, and besides, he had never been a fan of holding extended conversations through text messages. Idly, he wondered if Carisi had already seen Rollins and was heading home; though, maybe he was on his way there now.

A few minutes later, as the archival footage of some marching battalion rolled across the screen, Rafael’s phone buzzed again, then continued to buzz with an incoming call. Assuming it was Carisi refusing to be ignored, Rafael picked it up without checking the screen.

“Yes?” Rafael said, half his attention held by the fragrant container of Doro Wot perched on his knees.

A deep, raspy breath came through on the other line, then another. “Fuck you.” The line clicked, went to quiet static.

Rafael drew the phone back from his ear in time to see that the number flashing on the hang-up call was Restricted. His heart thumped in his ear, and he nearly let the container of food slip between his knees. It wasn’t the first eloquent hang-up call he had received in the past few months, and combined with the couple of sporadic text message threats, it was beginning to get harder to write them all off as unrelated, as pranks or wrong numbers. In the many years as he had spent as a prosecutor, Rafael had fielded plenty of threats made on his life—mostly from criminals and their aggrieved family members. For some reason, this situation struck him as different. Maybe it was the anonymity of it; maybe it was how it all seemed to start after indicting a couple of high profile cops.

A notification popped on his screen and he winced, half expecting more of the same. Instead, it was Carisi.

“have a good night! see u tomorrow”

For a moment, he considered clicking into the message and calling Carisi, indulging in a conversational palate cleanser of sorts. Propriety won out—that or some stubborn sense of pride—and he silenced his phone instead.

***

“Criminally negligent homicide,” Carisi said as soon as the door to Rafael’s inner chamber had shut behind them. He clicked his tongue. “Wow.”

“Welcome to the prosecution,” Rafael said dryly, rounding his desk and plopping into his chair. “Half the pay and just as many disappointments.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a weak attempt at staving off the promise of a headache. 

Rafael had asked Carmen to call Benson when they arrived back in the office, asked Carmen to have her bring Mrs. Rodriguez with her that evening so that they could discuss the terms of Hodda’s plea deal. He knew it would be a tough sell, an unpleasant conversation, because eight years wasn’t nearly enough time for Lewis Hodda to serve, of _course_ it wasn’t. But Rafael had seen plenty of juries get hung up on less, and as much as it pained him, he knew when to take the deal that was offered.

Carisi though, he didn’t understand that fundamental instinct of the job yet, the mirthless victory of the deal you settled for. At least, Rafael assumed he didn’t—why else would he still be here, unmoored and roaming the office, if not to make an impassioned case for idealism? To argue the merits of the road not taken? 

Rafael already tried to dismiss Carisi, after the endless volley with Hassler. Hammering out the terms of the plea deal left Rafael bone tired, with a headache tightening its belt around his brow, and he told Carisi they were done for the day. In typical Carisi fashion, he had feigned some sort of selective hearing and stuck around despite the clear direction. If not for the persistent throb in his head, Rafael might have appreciated the gesture more, might have enjoyed arguing it all out with Carisi before delivering it softly, delicately, to Benson and Mrs. Rodriguez. 

Carisi stopped at the far window to look out for a moment, and Rafael watched him warily from behind his desk. The late afternoon sun cast a golden shade over Carisi’s face as he studied something in the distance, pensive, his brow furrowed in thought. Rafael was struck by the sight of him, the elegance of his long lines in his charcoal suit—a definite upgrade from his usual detective wear, and a far cry from the beige suits and patterned ties he had favored only a year ago. His normally slicked-back hair was putting up a valiant fight against its gel hold, and it seemed softer in the waning sunlight. 

Rafael had to look away. Having Carisi invade his space for so long was clearly still addling his mind despite all attempts made at compartmentalizing. He busied himself with producing a bottle of ibuprofen from his desk drawer instead, rattling out a dose into his palm and chasing it with the dregs of a cold mug of coffee. 

The sound seemed to break Carisi from his thoughts. “Hey, for what it’s worth counselor, I think you did the right thing.” He began to fidget with the curtain tie as he spoke. “Juries, they’re unpredictable, right? And the longer this all goes... I mean, you gotta think the holiday is weighing on some of them.”

The easy vote of confidence surprised Rafael, and it took him a moment to formulate a response. “Astute observation.”

“And, okay, sure, it’s tough to think we’re letting him off easy,” Carisi said. “But things would be different if we could include the kidnapping.”

“True.”

“It’s not ideal, but at least this way Hodda doesn’t walk free.”

It dawned on Rafael then that Carisi might have been there to convince himself of the points he was making more than anything else. “Rarely is it ever ideal,” he said. “But then, I think you know that.”

“Yeah.” Carisi snorted to himself. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

Stilted silence settled back over the room, and Rafael watched Carisi continue to tug idly at the curtain tie until he accidentally undid the knot. The cloth curtain fell across the window with a soft hiss, casting Carisi in shade. He attempted a clumsy fix to what he had undone, all thumbs, and Rafael had to look away once more. 

“If you’re finished redecorating, detective…”

“Ah, yeah, sorry. I should get outta your hair,” Carisi said, patting the mostly-fixed curtain in its place, then flashing a sheepish smile in Rafael’s direction. “I figured you might need a pep talk.”

“Me?”

Carisi shrugged. “Yeah. You kinda seemed like you could use one after the olympics with Hassler back there. Besides, ah... if we’re accepting the deal, I’m guessing there’s not much else for me to shadow, so.”

Truthfully, Rafael appreciated the pep talk. More than that, he appreciated Carisi’s instinct to offer it. Neither were facts that he could articulate. 

“Is this a formal goodbye, then?” Rafael asked. “Should I expect some sort of paperwork to sign for academic credit?”

Carisi chuckled, “Nah, nothing like that, don’t worry. Believe it or not, this was all my idea.” He approached the chair that faced Rafael’s desk and leaned his palms against the back of it. “I just—you know I’ve had this focus on immigration law, right?” 

Rafael tilted his head. “I don’t believe you mentioned.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I thought it was what I wanted to specialize in. Seen enough trafficking cases back in Homicide get all muddied up in the system and I started to think, what if I could be doing it differently on the other side of things? And then, moving into Special Victims, I mean, that’s been a whole other ballpark. But now, I dunno. I’ve been thinking a lot about what the DA’s office can do, what I’ve seen—” He stopped short, ran his hand through his hair. “I figured it’d be good to take this opportunity, you know? Get the experience while I’m still figuring everything out. And counselor, I mean you’ve been—”

Just then, there was a tap at the door, and Carisi jumped away from the chair he had been leaning over as though it burned him. Carmen opened the door and leaned in.

“Lieutenant Benson’s on her way up with Mrs. Rodriguez,” she said. “Do you want me to tell them to wait?”

“Nah, that’s alright, I should get going,” Carisi said, straightening the chair he had moved slightly. “I was just over here boring Barba to death with my life story.”

“There are worse ways to go,” Rafael said. He was aiming for something snarky, but in the pause that followed he realized he had landed somewhere closer to fond, something bordering on open flirtation. He chose that moment to straighten an errant pile of folders on his desk.

“I ah—I’ll, yeah. Okay.” Carisi flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway. Thank you. For everything. I’ll be in touch. Counselor.” Carisi avoided direct eye contact as he grabbed his things from the oblong table where he had left them. He gave a brisk nod to Carmen, keeping his head down as he squeezed past her in the doorway and let himself out of the office. The door shut behind him with a clap. 

Carmen raised a brow in Rafael’s direction. “Everything okay?”

“It was a long day,” Rafael replied, putting the bottle of ibuprofen back into his desk drawer, willing himself to focus on the action and not the lasting image of Carisi so clearly flustered. “Wheeling and dealing with Hassler can rattle even the best of them.”

“So, is that it for the shadowing then?”

He nodded. So it was. “We’ll be entering the plea deal with Horowitz in the morning.” Rafael rubbed at his jaw. “You’re safe from any more Staten Island pastry deliveries.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always for your continued support and feedback. While Fin is not canonically a friend of the Cannoli King, Ice is (or at least he once frequented the place Palermo's is based on). The more you know! 
> 
> If you want to continue onward from this story, try out [No Closer to Peace.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/759486)
> 
> (if you're subscribed to Much Farther to Go, hopefully gonna have something very soon, sorry for ghosting!)


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